Rules of Conflict (12 page)

Jani sat across from him and watched the desktop disappear beneath
a layer of Service paper. “You’ve been working?”

“Oh, yes.” He glanced at her in surprise, as though hitting the
stacks directly after coming off a three-week-long haul was the most normal
thing in the world. “Spent the better part of yesterday afternoon filing
motions. Extensions, mostly, since you and I weren’t able to work together to
prepare your case. I also visited the Service Investigative Bureau Archives.”
The eager look in his eyes altered, becoming harder, more cold-blooded.

Jani caught a glimpse of Friesian-in-court and grudgingly admitted
she liked what she saw. “What did you find there?”

“Better to ask what I didn’t find.” Finally, he removed a small
watercooler and a couple of dispo cups from the case’s side pocket, then
dropped the case to the floor beside his chair. “Anything relating to your
history after your transfer from First Documents and Documentation to the
Twelfth Rovers. It’s as though you disappeared.”

Jani picked through a stack of papers. Most were formal requests
to examine documents, formatted in the current style—lightest blue parchment
with a stylized eagle watermark. Friesian had noted the places where she needed
to sign. “That makes no sense. That’s their case.”

Friesian grinned. “Exactly.”

“They’re up to something.” Jani crossed her arms, tucking her
hands in her sleeves in an effort to warm them.
Why do they keep these rooms
so damned cold?
She’d supplemented the long-sleeved winter-issue pajamas
with a winterweight robe and two pairs of socks, yet she still felt cold. “They
can’t let me get away with this.”

“Get away with what?” Friesian’s voice grew measured. Another
courtroom tic surfacing. “Jani, why do you believe you’re here?”

Is this a trick question?
She tried to cross her right leg
over her left. The weak limb wouldn’t budge, forcing her to grab a handful of
pajama leg and hoist up and over. “Check the posting board in any colonial
Government Hall.”

“We aren’t in a Government Hall now, and I want to hear it from
you.”

But I don’t want to say it.
Once she said the words, that
would be it. No going back. No pretending the past eighteen years had never
happened, that her Service career had continued uninterrupted, that she was
simply in hospital for her annual physical. She stared over Friesian’s head at
a point on the blank wall and listened to her words as if they emerged from
another mouth. “I’m wanted for murder. The murder of Colonel Rikart Neumann, my
commanding officer.”

“The correct wording is,
Wanted for questioning in connection
with . . .
Hardly the same.”

“Words.”

“In my game, words count.” Friesian freed a recording board from
beneath one of the piles. “Jani, what you’re actually charged with is Article
Ninety-two of the Service Code. ‘Missing movement.’” He unsnapped a stylus from
its board niche, activated it, and began writing.

“Miss—” Jani tried to speak, but the words stalled in her throat.
They’re
saying I missed a ship.
Neumann dead. The patients dead. Twenty-six Laumrau
and fifteen Rovers.
And they track me for eighteen years and arrest me for
missing a ship.
“That—that’s a joke.”

“You think so?” Friesian continued writing. “As the highest-ranked
documents examiner in the Twelfth Rover Corps, it was your sworn duty to ensure
that the paper under your control made transfer during the evac of Rauta Shèràa
Base. According to the charge, you failed to appear at your post the night the
evacuation took place.” Friesian picked a document off the top of one of the
piles and studied it. Older Service paper—pale grey parchment. Paper from
Jani’s time. “The Night of the Blade. The night the Vynshàrau took over.”

“The Twelfth Rovers—” Jani shivered. She felt even colder now.
“The Twelfth Rovers never made it back to Rauta Shèràa Base.”

“No, but you did, according to Colonel Veda. One of the documents
that went missing recorded your transfer, via people-mover, from Knevçet Shèràa
to Rauta Shèràa Base.”

“That never happened!”

Friesian tapped his thumbs on the edges of his board. “What did
happen?”

“From the beginning?” Jani pulled her robe more closely around
her. “We were sent to Knevçet Shèràa to hook up with the group of Bandan
xenogeologists who had been trapped by the fighting and escort them back to
Rauta Shèràa.”

“You were a documents examiner. Why bring you on a pickup?”

“Neumann said he needed me to confirm their papers. What he really
needed me for was to validate and code their patient files for transport back
to Earth, but I didn’t realize that until too late.” Jani blew on her hands—so
cold. “The first patient died soon after. Her name was Eva Yatni. Then Simyam
Baru mutilated himself, and I tracked down Neumann to find out what the hell
was going on. We fought. That was when I killed him.” She stared at her hands,
skin paled from inner chill. “The Laumrau staff fled to the hills, warned their
compatriots that word of their collusion with humans would get out if they
didn’t act. So they started bombing. Yolan Cray died during the first wave. She
was my corporal. A wall collapsed on her. Then the bombing stopped.”

She could hear the silence again, the silence that fell after the
last shatterbox found its target. Silence too afraid to open its eyes. Silence
with its heart torn out.

“A Night of Convergence.” Friesian cleared his throat, then poured
himself water from the cooler. “The idomeni government conducted an
investigation that confirmed the action you took against the twenty-six Laumrau
encamped outside Knevçet Shèràa.”

“It wasn’t an action—I killed them one by one as they took a
sacramental meal in their tents.”

“They also advised us that they have no interest in pursuing any
type of case against you at this time.” He paused to drink, then pressed the
cup against his forehead. “That part of your story, at least, can be
confirmed.”

Jani recrossed her legs. She still needed to hoist her right.
“What do you mean, confirmed?”

Friesian sighed. “Ever since I started working this case, all I’ve
encountered is one rumor after the other.” He pressed fingertips to forehead.
“Rumor that the doctors who founded Neoclona salvaged you from the transport
van Reuter allegedly arranged to have bombed. Rumor that they kidnapped you off
the street and smuggled you offworld to experiment on you. I hear different
stories every day concerning how Rikart Neumann died.” He picked up the documents
bag and rummaged through the flaps and pockets until he freed a small packet.
He tore it open, shook a bright pink tablet into his hand, and tossed it into
his mouth, washing it down with water.

Jani reached for one of the dispos—Friesian took that as a cue to
pour her some water. She let him. Her hands had started to shake—if she tried
to serve herself, who knew where the water would end up? “What other stories do
you need? I’m admitting I killed Neumann.”

Friesian handed her the cup. “On the
Reina
, when you were
still holed up in the infirmary and giving the medical officer fits, you
insisted you had sneaked out during a shift change and disabled the fire
extinguishers. Your accounting of your movements was so accurate, the chief
engineer ordered a ship-wide inspection. You hadn’t touched a thing, of course.
You’d never left the infirmary.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“What
I
believe doesn’t matter. What anyone else believes
doesn’t matter. Solid proof,
paper
proof, proof that can be researched
and confirmed, is what the prosecution needs to support this or any charge and
the only thing against which we need to mount a defense. And so far, they’ve
shown me nothing to connect you with Neumann’s death.”

“You’re—” Jani loosened the neck of her robe. She felt much warmer
now. Her heart pounded. “You’re saying they won’t charge me, that I spent all
these years running for nothing. You’re saying they have no case.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Because the paper’s gone missing.”

“If it ever existed at all.”

“I don’t understand any of this.”

Friesian leaned forward and selected papers from the various
piles. “I had a long talk with Roger before coming to see you.” He grinned at
Jani’s puzzled look. “Dr. Pimentel. He feels you’re under a great deal of
stress. Much of it, he adds, is self-imposed.” He handed her one of the
documents requests, along with a stylus. “I want to do what’s best for you,
Jani. I wish I felt you trusted me more.”

Jani braced her hand on the arm of her chair. In spite of the
support, her hand still shook so badly that her normally crisp signature showed
blurred and crooked. “Do I have a choice?”

“That is not what I want to hear.” Friesian took the document and
handed her another. “Roger did tell me he feels you’re improving. The muscle
weakness may last for a few more weeks, but you’re responding well to the diet
they’ve put you on and the other therapies they’re trying out. You could be
released in the next few days.”

“To do what?” Jani stared at the paper she held.
Extended
Residence Agreement
. A Transient Officers’ Quarters contract. “Work with
you?”

“Such a luxury, the Service cannot afford. They have an
Academy-trained documents examiner in their grasp, and they can’t afford to let
her go unutilized.” Friesian pointed to the TOQ contract. “You’re being
returned to duty, Captain Kilian. With restricted movement, I should add.
You’ll be confined to base until we close the book on this.” He reached into
another pile and removed an official-sized steel blue envelope, its flap
crosshatched with white security seals. He smiled cautiously and handed it to
Jani.

She traded the TOQ contract for the envelope. The crisp parchment
snapped like plastic between her fingers. “Do you know what’s in here?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No. You have to open it.”

She held her breath as she broke the threadlike seals, removed the
sheets of pale blue parchment, and unfolded them.

“What do you think?” Friesian’s smile strengthened. “You’ve been
assigned to your old outfit. First Documents and Documentation.”

Reporting to Lt. Colonel Frances Hals
. Foreign
Transactions, third floor, Documents Control. Simple wording for simple
actions. Three days from today, at 0830, she would present herself to
Lieutenant Colonel Hals, dressed out, scanpack in hand. The Service’s Oldest
Living Sideline Captain reporting for duty.

Friesian gathered the documents and returned them to his case.
“Roger feels it’s in your best interest to work again. Use your skills. ‘Chip
off the rust,’ he calls it. In the meantime, I’ll work my end, and we’ll meet
regularly to discuss any developments.”

Friesian insisted on playing the gallant, so Jani let him escort
her back to her room. On the way, they passed a patient leaning against the
wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at nothing. He looked like
he’d been through a war himself—bronze-haired and lean, with a long, weathered
face cut from edge of nose to end of mouth by a deep, age-whitened scar. He
looked at them as they passed—his eyes held confusion and bewilderment and mute
question.
Takedown malaise
. Jani knew how he felt. The next time she
looked in a mirror, she’d see the same eyes staring back.

They discharged her two days later.

“You’ve shown marked improvement.” Pimentel said. “But you’re to
check in every other day until further notice. The noise from the firing range
occasionally entertains us—if it bothers your augie, come in and we’ll fit you
with hearing protection.” He handed her a rectangular blue bag that looked like
a Service toiletry kit. “Your scrips and instructions are in here. If you have
any questions, anytime, call or stop in.” He reached into the front pocket of
his medcoat and pulled out a small, cartridge-tester-like device.

“This is your diet monitor. It’s like a scanpack for food. Run it
over every item you want to eat—it determines kcals as well as fat grams,
protein, etc, and it keeps a running tally. If it squeals, you can’t have what
you just scanned.” He held the small box out to her. “We’ll be able to tell if
you cheat and trust me, so will you.”

Jani accepted the device with a grudging nod. “I know what it’s
going to tell me. More fruit milk shakes.” The sweet sludge had remained a
staple of every meal. She had run through the kitchen’s entire supply of hot
sauce in a day and a half, and had been forced to resort to plain black pepper
to kill the taste.

Pimentel led Jani out to the lobby and was about to show her out
the door when a woman standing near the entry desk raised her hand. He ran a
hand over his rumpled medwhite V-neck. “Jani, I’d like to introduce you to
someone.”

The woman made no move to meet them, but remained by the desk. She
was perhaps twenty years older than Jani, with steel grey hair trimmed in a
blunt, chin-length style. Her eyes were dark, her skin, olive. She wore
summerweights and a crisp white medcoat, and cradled a recording board.

“Ma’am, it’s good to see you.” Pimentel executed the
straight-backed sharp nod that took place of a salute indoors. “Captain Kilian,
I’d like to introduce Dr. Carvalla, our chief of staff.”

Dr. Major General Carvalla,
Jani amended, taking note of
the twin silver stars adorning the sides of the woman’s short-sleeve. “Ma’am.”

“Captain.” Carvalla’s broad face broke into a genuine smile. “You
have been giving my people a workout.” She glanced at Pimentel, who looked
starstruck. “It’s not often I meet someone who served on Shèrá. We’re
contemporaries of a sort. I served as medical officer on a ship stationed in
that area. The
Kensington.
You may not have heard of it, considering the
circumstances at the time.”